A Million Decades
by discocompacto
Summary: On his deathbed, Alexander Hamilton fondly recalls bonding moments he has shared with his children individually.
1. Eliza

**I saw Hamilton for the very first time a couple of weeks ago and fell in love with it. And since I'm a sucker for good fathers and apparently Alexander Hamilton was a pretty devoted one, here's a random drabble on the matter. Hope you like it!**

* * *

Alexander blinked. His train of thought had been punctuated as abruptly as the still quiet in which he had submerged himself who-knew-how-long ago by the wailing of his youngest daughter. The sun had gone down without his realizing and he noticed a lit candle at his desk he did not remember lightening. It must have been his wife, he thought, before she parted, _best of wives and best of women_.

Having been three months pregnant by the time of their eldest son's tragic, untimely death, the birth of their eighth child had been quite harsh on Elizabeth's anatomy, and so the family doctor recommended she retired upstate with her mother and father for a few weeks, maybe a little less than a month with their infant son as they both recovered. And so, Alexander was left alone with their other six children. His wife had been wise enough, however, to hire a woman to assist him, especially with their eldest daughter Angelica, still troubled in the head by her brother's passing.

"Good Lord," he whispered to himself, for the toddler's cries only became sharper and louder.

He looked down at his desk and realized the tips of his fingers had dyed black from the ink of the quill he had been unknowingly toying with. The page before him was blank. He remembered a time when peace and quiet were his greatest enemies; before, thoughts raced like hurricanes in his mind, rushing to flee that mortal prison of flesh that was his head, longing to be put in writing so that they could instead belong to eternity, so they could trace a legacy.

Before, he remembered, he would write with the certainty that tomorrow was never promised. The death of his son had only confirmed how futile and limited life really was, how nothing was guaranteed. Nevertheless, rather than rushing even further, his train of thought slowed down instead. Instead of rushing to escape him, his thoughts became his most comforting company, at least for now while his beloved wife was away and his children fast asleep— well, all but one, it seemed.

"Mr. Hamilton," said the nanny apologetically as she greeted her patron when he had approached the bedroom, holding the wailing Eliza —she was named after her mother's nickname— in her arms while he offered a small bow. "I am so sorry, sir. I've done everything in my power, sir, she's restless."

Alexander raised a gentle hand to put her mind at ease, indicating that he was far from being displeased with her services.

"Run along to bed, Theresa," he reassured her as he approached the two of them. "Come to me, my precious night owl," he then cooed, picking up his daughter in his own arms. "Would you make sure Angelica was not awakened? The doctor left instructions that she should rest."

And so, Hamilton returned to his study with his daughter in his arms. There was a fashion, he had learned during his time in New York, amongst wealthy families in which the children were hardly ever welcome in certain rooms outside of the dining and living room, especially if their father should be present. Alexander himself found that fashion laughable and could not imagine a life in which he would apply it. It could be difficult getting any work done with his children running about, so much was true, but why would anyone deny themselves the bliss and tenderness only the company of one's child would provide? He remembered having written in a letter about his first-born how his soul felt starved whenever he was away from him for too long.

And Eliza was so pure, so innocent, so oblivious to all the heart-breaking surrounding her. While her family mourned and cried, she pouted and played, she could speak for minutes without ever enunciating a single word, simply because she wanted her voice to be heard. She was only two years old going on three, and yet her mother insisted that of all their children, she would take after her father the most.

"What is it, my dearest?" he murmured patiently as he took a sit on his armchair in front of the fireplace, settling the toddler upon his lap. By that point, her yelling had stopped; instead, she only sobbed violently, face wet with tears. "Hardly a proper argument, " he teased as Eliza replied only with an upset groan. "You sound just like Jefferson at a cabinet meeting."

He cradled her head to his chest and began to rock from side to side. His own eyes closed and for a moment, he wondered who was benefiting the most from his gesture, the child or himself. The grief of losing a child was indescribable, something he would not wish upon the most ruthless of his enemies, the one thing he had never been able to put properly into writing, for words could never be enough. In moments such as those, however, when he held his children, when he watched them read or play, when they run about as his wife and him sat on the garden for hours on end… that indescribable, excruciating pain seemed to fade, however faintly, enough for him to breathe without feeling as though there was a dagger lodged between his ribs.

Eliza herself must have found the gentle movement soothing as well, for soon enough she was blabbering, speaking syllables with no meaning whatsoever and yet pronouncing them as though engaging in proper conversation.

"Is that so?" said Hamilton with a faint smile —the most sincere one he had pulled off in months— as he loosened his hold around her so that she could turn and face him while continuing to speak her mind. "Oh, my precious little night owl, what a burden I've passed onto you."

He realized now that his wife was in fact right and that Eliza had most definitely taken after his mannerisms. Even though he joked when making such comments about the torments of being like him at mind, he did silently pray that his daughter should be gifted with more peace of mind than he ever had, for his conscience was never at ease, not in the quiet, not with his family, not until, he believed, he should be at the very doorstep of the Heavens.

The little girl smiled and Alexander felt his heart melt. He would later write in a letter to his wife that a thousand refrains would never do justice to such marvelous sight nor to the love only a parent was fortunate enough to experience that it awakened. As the toddler raised a hand to trace her father's features, he wished he could live in that moment forever. All his life, he had believed that his childhood had been but a challenge to overcome, a test for him to pass so that he could prove to the world and to himself he was in fact destined for far greater achievements than leading an orphaned life. Now, he thought to himself that if such was the price to pay so that events should align as to gift him with his eight children, he would surmount that challenge a hundred times.

"Come, little pet, let us rest," he said after Eliza had yawned, taking that as their cue to head off to bed for the night.

At first, he had fully intended to return the toddler to her own bed. However, as he felt her tight hold around his neck while he carried her back to her bedroom, he realized he would not be able to summon the nerve necessary to put her down and walk away. Therefore, he brought her to the master bedroom with him instead.

Eliza fell fast asleep the second her head leaned on her father's chest as he lied on his back. Alexander brought a hand up to her curls and whispered an Our Father, praying for her well-being and safe keeping.

"Take your time, my precious little night owl," he then whispered to her as he caressed her hair. "Don't you dare join me on the other side a second sooner than you must. For you, I'll wait a million decades." And with that, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead and succumbed to sleep himself.

Eliza spent the rest of her days believing that promise and that kiss had been all but a blissful dream.


	2. James

"No."

"But mama!"

"No."

"Papa?"

"Oh, I think your mother just put it quite plainly, my boy," commented an amused Alexander as he brought his cup of tea up to his lips.

James pressed his lips together into a tight line, glancing at his older brother as though implicitly requesting assistance, for he knew very well Alexander Jr. had gotten away with missing a day of class by claiming to be ill more times than he had been able to count. Rather than helping him, his brother resorted to hiding behind a glass of orange juice, taking an unnecessarily long sip.

"But I have already gone through my reading material, I am far more ahead than any other boy in my class!"

"You are not a lawyer yet, James, no need to state your case," said Elizabeth, smoothing her skirt as she took a seat to serve herself some breakfast now that all their children had been fed. "You've asked a question and I've answered. End of story."

"Papa, _please_, I am really not fit for class today," pleaded the fifteen-year-old still.

"Very well," said Alexander as he folded the newspaper he had been reading to set it aside, leaning over the table to look at his son.

"Oh, Lord, here it comes," whispered Elizabeth to herself, for she knew already before another word was uttered that James would get his way.

"Would you say you are prepared for your upcoming exams?" asked Alexander.

"Yes, papa."

"So if you were to take them today, the result would be satisfactory."

"Yes, papa."

"And do I have your word as a gentleman that, when the time comes, your exam results will make your mother and I proud?"

"You have my word, papa."

Elizabeth tried to look stern still but when Alexander feigned a sigh of defeat and turned to look at her, she couldn't help the half-smile that curved the corner of her lips.

"He gave us his word as a gentleman, my love, our hands are tied."

After gently scolding her husband with her eyes, she looked at her son's pleading face and gave a faint nod of approval.

An hour or so later, the house fell into almost complete silence. The older boys were at school, the younger children were with their tutors, Theresa had accompanied Angelica to her doctor's appointment, Elizabeth had left to run some errands and the only people left in the house on Broadway were James and Alexander, the latter secluded in his study as he usually was when there were no house chores to attend.

After breakfast, James had changed back to his pijamas and gone back to sleep for two more hours in an attempt to make up for all the sleep he had been missing lately while he studied. When he woke up, he treated himself to a little reading for pleasure, pleased to be setting eyes upon a text he was not obligated to memorize.

"James."

Given that he was supposed to be feeling ill, he quickly hid his book under the covers as he glanced up at his father, who was standing at the door of his bedroom.

"Come," he instructed, turning a blind-eye to the damning evidence against his son's excuse, gesturing with his head to indicate that he followed him before walking away, clearly trusting James would follow.

That must have been the first time James had walked into his father's study, at least while he was conscious enough to appreciate it; his mother had told him countless times how Alexander loved to have their infant children visit him late at night after he had absentmindedly written the day away, how he welcomed them at his favorite arm chair, at his desk even. He wondered as he looked around at the seemingly endless library around them what had inspired his father to welcome him into that room once again on his own accord.

Alexander beckoned him to take a seat on his desk chair and the teenage boy's eyes went wide as he hesitated, as if not deeming himself worthy of such an honour, before he eventually obliged. As to what his father was about to say or do, he remained in the dark, but for a moment he was genuinely concerned Hamilton had only allowed him to stay home from school so as to give him a proper, stern scolding.

"Have I ever shown you where I come from?" he asked unexpectedly as he spread an atlas across the desk.

James gazed upon it in wonder as Alexander smoothed it with his hands and then used his index finger to bring his attention to a remote spot in the middle of the Caribbean.

"What is that?"

"That is Nevis. Where your uncle James and I were born."

"That's where you were born?"

The boy leaned over the atlas to take a better look, sighing with surprise as he realized just how far from New York that island was. He traced the path across the sea with his finger as he imagined his father's voyage from the British West Indies to the Northern Colonies.

Alexander spread a second map across the desk, one of the whole island. He leaned over his son's shoulder as they examined it together.

"This is where we were born. Where our mother had been born before us." As the story went on, James turned his head to look at his father. "We moved here when our father had left. Then here when our mother had passed away. And then I moved here until I was seventeen. That's when a hurricane came, it devastated the town."

"Is that when you started writing?"

Alexander glanced at the boy in surprise; evidently their mother had already taught them more about his past than he had realized.

"That's right. That's when I wrote a letter to my father and it got published."

"That's what got you to New York? A letter to your father?"

Hamilton had lost count of the amount of praise he had received from friends and colleagues alike regarding that letter. He had heard all about how powerful most had found it and how impressive it was that it should be the work of an impoverished self-educated boy. Nevertheless, the look of admiration on his son's eyes had been, by far, the best, most flattering comment he had ever received about it. He smiled warmly and nodded his head yes.

A grin of wonder spread across James' features as he turned his head back to the map and asked his father to tell him all about his childhood sparing no detail, all the while following his story on his maps.

Years later, James would build himself a house in Irvington, New York. He named it "Nevis" after the birthplace of his father. The mansion still goes by that name two hundred years later.


	3. Alexander Jr

Alexander Jr. scoffed, shaking his head to himself as his brothers continued to read the newspaper, thoroughly entertained. He shifted in his armchair, turning his body away from them as much as he could and lowered his gaze to his book.

"You're fooling no one, Alex, we know you're desperate to show annoyed at us, we simply don't care," warned his younger brother James without even bothering to look up from the newspaper, since he knew that would annoy the eighteen-year-old even more.

"Hardly," replied the young man with an air of moral superiority. "Children being amused by words so childish it might be their own, happens everyday."

"That might be the harshest review I've received yet and that was a high bar to reach, my boy."

James, John and William set the newspaper aside as they jumped to their feet, having only just noticed their father watching them from the doorframe. Alexander Jr. rolled his eyes at their ridiculously devoted obedience and took his time to close his book before slowly rising to his feet as well.

"At ease, soldiers," Hamilton said amusedly as he raised a hand towards his younger sons. "Now go wash up for supper."

A simple beckoning gesture with the head was all it took for the three boys to leave the living room without reproach, leaving Alexander alone with his name sake, his eldest son. The young man took a seat with a sigh and picked up his book again, letting it open at whichever page just as long as it gave him an excuse not to look up at his father.

"I don't think Aaron Burr himself will be as displeased with me as you seem to be," remarked Hamilton as he took a seat on the arm chair right beside his son's. Junior did not look up. "May I ask what you find so upsetting about my open letter?"

"Besides the hypocrisy and immaturity, you mean?"

The nonchalance with which his own flesh and blood made such accusations sent a cold chill down Alexander's spine, causing him to sit up straight with the outmost look of surprise.

"Alex—"

"On and on you would rant about how Jefferson and Madison used their influences to create countless obstacles throughout _your_ career," the young man replied as he looked up from his book at last, evidently relieved to be granted the chance to speak his mind for once. "You accused them of being nepotists and elitists, and yet, here you are, doing the exact same thing to Burr. And why? Because he disagrees with you? Is that the message you are trying to pass onto your children? '_Agree with me or suffer the consequences_'?"

"Young man, I resent your tone," warned his father after the boy's voice had increased significantly in volume. "I have never opposed disagreement, but I do and will always oppose disrespect, of which _you_, Alexander Hamilton, are the very embodiment right now."

"Oh, **_I'm_** disrespectful?" Alex argued as he rose to his feet; his father followed in suit. "I don't recall being the one using his own newspaper to discredit a perfectly suitable candidate for governor."

"Perfectly suitable?" Hamilton laughed without being able to dissimulate his contempt. "Is that the matter? You would like to see Burr win this election?"

"Of course not! The man has less backbone than he does a proper political platform, but that doesn't make him any less suitable for a proper, clean campaign."

In his son's face, Hamilton saw reflected his own rejection towards the self-proclaimed Federalist, ready to jump at whichever party would admit it if it meant it would get him to run an office of any kind. He allowed a few seconds of silence to go by, during which he hoped the tension in the air would somewhat diffuse.

"So if you're not upset on Burr's behalf," Hamilton spoke up, lacing his hands together behind his back. "—what is it, Alex?"

The young man turned towards the fireplace and stared deeply into the flames so as to have something to anchor his eyes so that they would avoid his father, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"Never mind."

"Alexander…"

Alexander Jr. sank back on his armchair in silence. Hamilton took a seat beside him once again, sensing he was not once again refusing to speak but simply organizing his thought before he could put them into a words, a process with which he himself was much too familiar.

"Do you realize how _afraid_ of you things like this make your children?"

"_Afraid_ of me? Why on Earth would any of you be _afraid_ of me?"

"What if I were to want Burr to win this election? What then?"

Once again, Hamilton looked at his son with the outmost surprise.

"Do you honestly believe I would force you to go against your own convictions just because they oppose mine?"

"Isn't that what you do with everyone who's ever dared to disagree with you?"

"My dear boy, there is a _great_ difference—"

"Why is there a difference? Because we are our children? Now who is the nepotist?"

"Because my children have _**integrity**_. My children are not claiming to be abolitionists while owning the most slaves than anyone in the entire state of Virginia, my children are not claiming allegiance to a political party one day and another the second for the sake of their careers. They are as resilient as they are clever and I know in my heart that they will defend their opinions regardless of whose they are opposing."

Alex had always resented his father's unborn talent with words, which always made it so difficult to argue with him, as did the undying love he undoubtedly had for him and his siblings. That made it all the more terrifying to feel himself disagree with him, for greater would be the pain of seeing that love being ripped away from him should Hamilton ever decide he could not bear to have a son with his political views.

He couldn't help worry that his father only spoke of his thorough respect towards his children's opinion because he remained ignorant to what they truly were. After all, the rest of his siblings were still children and his only elder sibling, Angelica, was in no state of mind to construct any opinion of her own. The mere thought of being shunned by his father, regarded as their second dead son, deceased only to his eyes, made Alex's sight blur with tears that were slowly but surely forming.

"And what if I were a Democratic-Republican?" he murmured, once again staring into the flames. "What then?"

There was a silence, absolute except for the cracking of the fire, and Alex braced himself for the moment in which his life as he knew it would fall to pieces, in which he would become more repulsive than Burr to his father's eyes.

"It was a high time that party had a member worth-while."

He glanced at his father with wide, befuddled eyes. Hamilton abandoned his armchair to kneel on the floor, right in front of the eighteen-year-old.

"My dear boy, sacrificing your own beliefs out of fear of what others might think of you, regardless of who they are, is to sacrifice your very soul. What you believe today might not be what you believe tomorrow and that's all right, you will shape your opinions with experience and maturity, sometimes voluntarily, sometimes not so. The important thing is, my son, that you never renounce them. Because the version of yourself you will present to the world, be it for the sake of your friends and family or whoever you pretend to agree with, will be a lie. A lie that will harm to no one except yourself. My legacy is not the Federalist Party, Alexander, it's you. All seven of you. So long as you present yourselves to the world as who you are, every part of it, you will be making me proud."

Alex, having inherited his father's stubborn and proud nature together with his name, made his best to compose himself, holding his chin up as he swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"What if experience and maturity shape me and I'm still a Democratic-Republican? What if I decide to act on it when I become a professional, father, will you be proud of me then?"

Hamilton smiled and brought a hand up to the nape of his son's neck.

"Alexander, don't let foolish men such as myself or Burr, or Monroe, or Jefferson convince you that you are solely defined by where you stand politically. There is so much more to life. And you are, first and foremost, my son. That trumps any disagreement."

Alex's gaze lowered to his own lap and he only responded by nodding his head, worried that tears might stream down his cheeks if he tried to speak.

"My darling boy… I have loved you from the first time I laid eyes upon you and I will love you until my own close forever. Regardless of what lies in here."

He pressed a gentle finger to his forehead. Hamilton proceeded as he knew he would have liked to if he were in his son's shoes, knowing full well they shared the same ego as well as they shared a name. He got on his feet and left the room so that Alex could cry privately and in peace, knowing full well that neither one of them would ever bring the matter up again, glad, nonetheless, that they had discussed it.


	4. William

Alexander only twirled his glass of brandy twice before rushing to take a sip from it, desperate to calm his nerves. Even through written word Aaron Burr managed to get the best of him, toeing past the limits of his patience, pushing him to succumb to his temper. He brought his drink with him to the window as he gazed outside.

The harsh rain concealed the sky but the deafening silence that ruled around the house indicated that it was quite late at night. He therefore decided he would have his letter sent the following morning, much as he would prefer Burr's discomfort upon reading it to happen all the sooner.

A roar of thunder made the windows quiver. Alexander was not afraid, having confronted winds that had smashed the glass right out of its socket at the age of seventeen. The same could not be said, apparently, for other members of his family.

Just as he turned his head towards the door, the shape he had spotted out of the corner of his eye, disappeared as swiftly as it had arrived.

"Good Heavens… am I being hunted by a restless ghost?"

He heard no response. Alexander left his glass of brandy on his desk and slowly paced towards the door of his study, holding both hands behind his back.

"Do please show me mercy, oh, wandering soul, for I mean you no harm," he recited with amused solemnity as he stopped at the doorframe, smiling at himself for he could hear his child breathing right outside he room. "Won't you come greet me, benevolent spirit?"

The six-year-old peeked his head, lacking all talent for dissimulation and as he caught a glimpse of his father staring down at him, he retreated behind the wall once again.

"You seem quite lively for a ghost," joked Hamilton. "To what do I owe the pleasure, William?"

At last, the boy showed himself, stepping shyly into the light. With a patient smile, his father beckoned him to join him in his study. Barefoot and cold, William followed him towards his armchair by the fireplace.

"Very well, young man, state your case," said Hamilton as he took a seat while the boy stood in front of him. "I understand it's well past your bedtime."

William stared at his own bare feet, hands behind his back as he nodded his head in defeat. Alexander leaned forward in his chair so he could duck his head and get his son to look him in the eye.

"Something the matter?"

Defeated by the pressure of having been caught, William began to cry. His father sighed, picking him up from the floor and bringing him to sit on his lap.

"Oh, my darling chap," he whispered to himself as he caressed his head, exhaling a faint chuckle out of endearment for his heart melted at the sight of such innocence, such immaculacy of conscience.

"James called me a… c-coward," cried the boy, stammering between sobs as he tugged at his sleeves so he could use them to wipe his tears away.

"I see…"

"He said… H-He said I shouldn't be… s-scared of thunder bec—… because that's for cowards…"

"Don't you pay any mind to your brother, William, he knows as well as I do that we all hold fears."

William shook his head, still refusing to meet his father's gaze.

"You don't, papa."

"Whatever do you mean?"

The boy paused to sniffle and Alexander reached for his pocket handkerchief to hand it over to him. He put his hand on his to correct him as William inexpertly dabbed his face with the piece of cloth.

"J-James told me you would never be scared of thunder… s-so I went looking for you…" He paused to sniffle. "A-And I found you here and I saw you and you w—… you were not afraid, papa, you're never afraid."

Alexander chuckled, adjusting the boy on his lap so he would be facing him more properly.

"Well… once you're ready to give me your undivided attention, how about I tell you something that James doesn't know?"

William rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and looked up at Hamilton at last, prepared to hold his gaze once and for all as long as it meant proving his older brother wrong.

"When I was your brother's age," he began. "I was caught in the middle of a storm, a horrible storm, it was destroying the whole town I lived in. I was alone, all alone, and I have never been more frightened."

"Wasn't mama there?"

"No, mama was very far away, we hadn't met yet."

"And did… did you cry?"

Alexander smiled and nodded his head yes.

"Would you like to know how I stopped being afraid of storms?"

His son nodded his head fervently, dying to learn the secret behind never losing sleep over thunderstorms or his brother's teasing ever again.

"I never did. I just realized that I no longer had to face another storm alone. And that made all the difference in the world. Do you understand me, William?"

The boy blinked and remained silent for a few seconds before shaking his head no. His father chuckled.

"What I mean to say is… no matter how horrible the storm is outside, your family will always be right here inside to keep you safe. Even if he enjoys getting on your nerves every now and again, your brother will always be there to ensure no harm comes to you. And I, my boy, will always be here to remind you that regardless of what James says, being afraid does not make you a coward. Do you understand me now?"

"I think so," William replied while slowly nodding his head.

As an adult, decades after his father's death, William carried that lesson with him all the way across the country as he moved to California during what historians called 'the Gold Fever'. Even though he would live to regret that decision, he would sleep at night as peacefully as he had that night of the storm tucked between both his parents, for he knew in his heart that he had never allowed his fear to stop him from seeing his plans through. He had never been a coward. 


	5. Angelica

Praying was futile. Alexander's prayers had been received with nothing but indifference for years now, regardless of how many times a day he found himself on his knees with his hands linked together. Nonetheless, he failed to see who else he was supposed to turn to for guidance at the face of such dreadful decision.

To decline Burr's challenge would have been to hammer the very last nail into the coffin of his political career, which in itself had been dangerously neglected since the Reynolds scandal, not to mention the death of his son. Nevertheless, Alexander feared the fate of his widow and father-less children more than he did the potential death of his career. To pass away on them would be to doom them; another funeral to plan, another grave at which to cry, another year in mourning.

However, he thought, should he perish, he would have done so as a man of honor, whereas by choosing to live, he would spend the rest of his days a coward, a laughing stock, someone his children could never come to respect, much less turn to as a role model.

So many years Hamilton had dreamed after his legacy, so much struggling and effort, blood, sweat and tears had led him to that moment, to that decision, a bifurcation of paths that would forever determine how he would be remembered. Would he be a coward? A martyr? A murderer? Or, perhaps, just a man who almost raised his arms in action against another but eventually managed to negotiate peace by speech alone. Had that not been, after all, the case in his duel against Monroe that never lived to take place, when Aaron Burr himself had intervened?

Every time he thought himself on the verge of making up his mind once and for all, he once again found himself succumbing to doubt and dispare. Everything that had once seemed so clear to him was now blurred, everything about which he had once been so certain had now turned into mind-numbing hesitation.

Alexander prayed again, closing his eyes to the garden before him, where he would spend countless hours since November, 1801. The sound of footsteps startle him.

"Angelica…"

His eldest daughter paced about, barefoot and in just her nightgown, eyes lost as they stared up at the night sky, twirling about as though she were only the same age as her youngest sister, Eliza.

As he rose from the bench and approached her, Hamilton spotted Theresa rushing out of the house in her nightgown as well, looking alarmed. He dismissed her with a gentle gesture of the hand.

"You ought to be resting," he told the twenty-year-old as her wide, blank eyes landed on his face. "It's awfully late, my angel, you must go back to bed."

Angelica was visibly restless; her head turned from side to side, her eyes searched everywhere, looking past her father as though he were invisible. Her father placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and she seemed to slip back to consciousness, glancing at him before looking down at her bare feet. She didn't speak a word, she only crossed her arms over herself and fervently nodding her head, frame shrinking as her shoulders contracted with shame.

"Come."

Moving his hand to her back, Alexander managed to guide his daughter back into the house. Occasionally, she would glance back, alarmed as though she were leaving something (or someone) behind.

"I just saw him, papa, where did he go?"

Hamilton didn't need to ask who it was that she had seen. Ever since the death of Philip, Angelica had never been the same. What had started as a sister being grief-stricken by the loss of her eldest and dearest sibling, resulted in a mental breakdown. From that moment on, she would behave like a child, believing herself to be much younger in age, occasionally claiming she saw Philip in the flesh and even failing to recognize family members at times.

Doctors assured them it was a matter of months before she came to her senses and that the best thing to do for her would be to contradict her, remind her she was an adult and that her brother was in fact dead. And yet, her parents noticed her state only worsened with time, and so Alexander decided the easiest thing to do (for their sake as well as Angelica's) was to nod along.

They reached her bedroom, where Theresa awaited and she held out a hand for the young woman to join her.

"Come, love, let us wash those feet."

Angelica's hand landed on her father's arm instead, clinging onto him for dear life.

"Don't leave me."

Hamilton prayed to God that he was wrong, but when he looked into his daughter's eyes, he could have sworn he recognized how she became aware of that dreadful reality of theirs. He placed a reassuring hand on hers and nodded his head, implicitly promising to help her bear that return to her senses.

He stood on a corner until she was ready for bed again, dismissing Theresa with a grateful smile before he took a seat on the edge of the mattress to ensure Angelica would indeed go back to sleep.

"I've learned a new song on the piano, papa."

"Did you?"

"Could I show you tomorrow?"

Alexander sighed to himself as he brought a hand up to stroke her hair, remembering the train of thought that she had interrupted in the garden. By the following day, he would have to extend Burr his response in regards of his challenge to a duel. He thought he had made up his mind, but looking upon his daughter who had not a moment ago requested that he didn't leave her, he was at as much a loss as he had been an hour before.

At last, he forced himself to smile.

"I'd be delighted, my angel."

After having pressed a kiss to her forehead, he bid her goodnight. Angelica never had the chance to tell anyone but, as she drew her very last breaths many decades later, she saw her father leaning over her like he had that night, she felt his warm, tender kiss on her forehead, and she spotted Philip gazing down at her from over Alexander's shoulder, as she gladly joined them on the other side, feeling at last like herself for the first time since she was seventeen.


	6. Philip II

"Is Mama not joining us for breakfast?" asked Alex after having glanced up from his book at last, realizing that half the family was not sitting at the table.

"Mama is feeling quite under the weather," answered Alexander as he poured himself a cup of tea. "The doctor says she's to stay in bed for a few days." He looked around the table himself, him too finding it oddly unpopulated. "Where is Theresa with the children?"

"Oh. That's right, I was supposed to tell you," recalled his eldest son all of a sudden as he turned a page. "Theresa, she's also bedridden, whatever Mama's got, she must have caught it."

"Then I suppose it's up to us, Hamilton men, to run the household, isn't it? James, won't you wake up William and bring him down, please? John, you fetch your sister."

The boys nodded their heads and left upstairs to bring down their younger siblings.

"And Alex…"

Alexander Jr. did not look up from his book.

"Alexander."

He obliged with a reluctant sight.

"Would you bring Philip down for breakfast?"

"Oh, good God, can't Angelica do it? A grown man taking care of a toddler, it's demeaning."

And with that, he sipped from his cup of tea and resumed his reading. Hamilton sighed, taking his napkin from his lap and left in on the table, pushing himself up from his chair.

"I pity your future children, my boy," he said as he left to wake up Philip himself.

He may not have found it demeaning, but Alexander certainly found taking care of his two-year-old a lot more challenging than he had originally believed. It took him several minutes to hush his boy, who had made sure his father heard how awfully displeased he was for having his slumber so abruptly punctuated. Hamilton kept on hushing his youngest child as he carried him down the stairs, fearing he might start to cry again should he stop.

It became a busy morning, but not the kind he used to dread back when Washington remained in office. Instead of plans that needed congressional approval and an insufferable amount of correspondence to take care of, it was his family that kept him occupied instead. After having seen that all his children had had breakfast, he sent the boys off to school and the youngest to their tutors. He checked on his wife, called in a doctor for Theresa and by the time he was done, he realized that was the first time since he had written back to Aaron Burr that he hadn't been counting down the hours until their encounter.

To help get his mind off the fact they were to meet across the river in less than a week, Alexander turned his attention back to his youngest son, the only Hamilton left in the house with whom he could properly interact until the rest of his children had finished their lessons.

"Come, my boy," he said as he picked him up again and carried him to the garden.

As they strolled, Philip began to point at different things (a tree, a flower, a bee), calling them all by name, or at least something similar in pronunciation. Alexander smiled at him, and he couldn't remember the last time he had felt as proud— until at last he remembered.

"Your brother was just as articulate at your age," he commented, even though he knew his son wouldn't have a clue what he was talking about. "You would have gotten on well, he would have loved you."

He took a seat on a bench and let Little Phil run about and play, watching him with the fondest of smiles, which he tried to keep on his features even when his insecurity led him to consider he might not be sitting there to watch his son grow up in a week's time.

"Phil… come here." His son waddled to his father's side and he sat him on his lap.

"There's a lesson to be learned to what's happened to your brother and what I'm currently facing… I wish I could tell you what it is, but obviously if I knew what it was, I wouldn't see myself in this situation."

Philip may have not understood a word, but he was looking up at the man with fascination in his eyes, as though fully committed in that conversation. And so Hamilton felt encouraged to speak from the heart, never mind how complex his words or the philosophy behind them may have been for a toddler.

"Can I trust you to find out what that lesson is and learn from it? Don't make our same mistakes, don't ever find yourself where I am now, my son. I wouldn't wish this on anybody, but especially not you."

Alexander would have been proud of the life Phil led after his passing, almost as if he had carried his father's advice with his at all times. Despite not having the same advantages as his older siblings given his family's financial struggles after Hamilton's death, he became a lawyer. He married, he had children, he led a quiet life.

And even though he had only been a child when his father died, he remembered him so fondly, as the sweet, devoted father he had been that day when he spent hours with him playing in the garden, when he made sure he brought all three meals to the table for his children, all the while nursing his wife.

Hamilton might have thought himself a faulty man, and in many ways, he was, but Phil had chosen to hold onto the good and that alone. Perhaps that was the lesson his father had failed to learn in life. 


	7. John

"You won't join me tonight?"

"Not tonight, my darling, you still need your rest," argued Alexander as he tenderly caressed his recovering wife's brunet hair.

He gazed upon her fondly as he stared into her deep, dark eyes, the feature of hers that had captured him the most when they first met, the two windows to her soul that had inspired so many poems, so many letters that would help pass the time, which seemed to drag out painfully during the many months they were separated by the war. How he wished there was a way in which he could store that sight in a compartment of his heart, so that it should shield him from all harm after he had crossed the river.

For the past week, Alexander had chosen to sleep in their guest room rather than in their own bed. His wife was sick and he reckoned she would rest much better without her restless husband coming to sleep at such late hours at night, only to rise again so early in the morning. That night of all nights, of course, he longed for nothing more than to join Eliza in their bed, and yet he feared that she should take notice when he got up before the sun was up, demanding where he thought he was going at such hours. Hamilton knew that if she confronted him about it, he might not have the heart to lie. He wished her goodnight and kissed her.

During the war, Alexander's later had caught the attention of many, not only for the fluency and eloquence they displayed (so unusual for someone so young, let alone someone so young lacking formal education) but also for their capacity of prediction. More than once had Hamilton foreseen several events in regards of the Revolutionary War, guessed strategies and responses for he was extremely insightful, particularly when it came to his enemies. How he hoped that talent of foreshadowing was not coming back to haunt him as he walked down his home, looking around himself as though it were the last time he would ever lay eyes upon it.

As he walked past the living room, he saw a light on and stopped at the doorway.

Inside, curled up on the couch under his blanket, sat John. His eyes were wide as his pupils moved swiftly from side to side, devouring the pages of the book that rested open over his lap. Watching him, Alexander saw himself as a boy his age (only eleven), reading and re-reading the thirty-four books his mother owned, thirsty for knowledge, captivated by every sentence, just as John seemed to be. He felt so blessed, the complete counterpart to the man he had known to be in his youth, when he would write less than encouraging letters to his dearest friends in which he contemplated emigration, or sometimes, it seemed, suicide.

When he heard a floor board creak, John gasped and turned his head, quite clearly having lost track of time given how immersed he had been in the narrative. He certainly hadn't expected to find his father, with a gaze as tender as he had ever seen it, standing by the door.

"I'm sorry, papa," said the flustered boy as he got on his feet. "I'll be off to bed now."

"John," Alexander replied, overlooking his unnecessary apology. "Won't you sleep with me tonight?"

John was beffudled. The last time he had shared a bed with either one of his parents, he had been but a child, William's age or younger. Nevertheless, the undeniable love he saw on his father's eyes was compelling. And so, he obliged.

Alexander had feared sleep would elude him that night, knowing full well what awaited in the morning. Yet in his son's company, the silence and darkness became less asphyxiating and more lulling by the minute. By sheer instinct worthy only of a soldier, Hamilton awoke at four. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he turned to look at his son and for a moment thought that it would be best to let him sleep. However, he couldn't help himself; he shook him gently by the shoulder and awoke him.

"My boy," he whispered as the half-asleep John rubbed his eyes and looked up at him at last. "Won't you pray with me?"

John remained as confused as he had been upon his father's first request, but in the pit of his stomach, he felt unsettlement, like an instinct warning him that something dire was upon them and that he should grant the man his every caprice while he still could.

They joined hands, bowed their heads, and together they prayed an Our Father. Far from feeling uneasy, Alexander felt comforted, blessed by the good will his son transmitted to his hands through his own. As long as he carried that faith and love with him, he thought, no harm could befall them. Whatever God planned on setting in motion that day, he would embrace it, for he had to believe in his heart that His Grace and Mercy would never punish that devoted, clever child of his, nor the rest of his beloved family.

Alexander led his son back to bed and John, being exhausted and only partially awake, did as he was told, without stopping once to wonder why his father had gotten him out of bed so early nor where he was off to now that he himself was awake before dawn.

Like his father, John grew up to study law and become an aide-de-camp during the War of 1812. He did not, however, practice law; instead, he became a historian, devoting himself particularly to the view of Alexander Hamilton's writings, carrying on his mother's purpose to ensure his legacy lived on even decades after he was gone.

John was eighty-five years old when he shared this particular recollection during an interview. Seventy-five years had gone by since his father's passing and he claimed he could not remember watching him lying on his deathbed despite knowing for a fact he had been there with his other siblings during Alexander's last hours. And yet, he said, what he still remembered with outmost clarity was the tenderness in his father's eyes as he watched him from the door. 


	8. The Hamiltons

After having been at last granted Holy Communion —it had taken some convincing, for to take part in a duel was in fact a sin—, Alexander was at peace. He awakened from a wonderful dream, tender moments of his children that he should carry with him in his heart all the way to the Heavens, and realized that the agony had ceased, which he took for a sign that he did not have much time left in the realm of the living.

"Alexander…"

Elizabeth had rushed to her husband's bedside and grabbed his hand, hugging it to her chest so Alexander would know she was right beside him, ready to take on whatever request he concocted. Tears still stained her face but hours had passed since she had learned it was pointless to try and wipe them away for they would soon be replaced with fresh ones. As he turned his head towards her, she sobbed, still refusing to embrace the fact that her husband was agonizing and would soon be joining his Heavenly fate like his mother and son before him.

She merely looked over her shoulder onto Theresa, who immediately understood the command without needing to exchange a single word. She lightly bowed at them both and left the room to get their children.

"Eliza," he whispered again, this time with the best loving smile he could pull off in spite of the pain, his thumb tenderly caressing her knuckles. "Best of wives and best of women." Even if he had been up for it physically, there is nothing more he could have said, for no words would have ever been enough to describe how blessed his life had become from the moment she had walked into it.

Elizabeth Schuyler had granted him the greatest gift of all: their children; eight pieces of his heart spread in equal parts, one of them already residing where he would soon be joining him. The best legacy an orphaned bastard could have dreamed of, even better than any other he could have left in writing. There were no other people in the world upon which he would trust the task of carrying on with the nation he had seen being born in his youth.

As she pressed her lips to the back of her husband's hand, the door opened. Alexander tried to sit up on his own but failed, and so two of his friends came along to help him while Eliza lined up their seven children around their father's bed, taking the youngest one, Philip II, in her arms.

Hamilton looked upon them with a smile, encouraging them to wipe away the solemn, grieving expression off their faces. He reassured them all that he was at peace, that however untimely it might have seemed, his hour had arrived and that he was more than willing to welcome it with open arms if such was the will of God. He asked them to join him in prayer as they all said Our Father together, holding hands amongst each other.

As his children sat on the edge of his bed surrounding him, Alexander was overcome by the outmost joy. Each and every one of those wonderfully bright and beautiful creatures before him were his pride and joy, his greatest accomplishments, the one bit of legacy nobody could ever reproach or take away from him. He was ever so thankful that the Lord had gifted him the opportunity to see them all one last time, kiss them one last time. Looking upon them, he thought to himself how after all the suffering he had endured before forming a family of his own, he would endure it all a thousand times over if it would lead him back to them each time.

"My darling children," he said to them with a smile that brought glow and youth to his fragile, pale features.

Their mother could not compose herself, never mind how much she tried, if only for the sake of the children. So much she had been crying, sobbing, cursing at the sky, that her friends worried for her state of mind, fearing she might wind up just like her daughter Angelica after Alexander had parted from that mortal world. She pressed a hand to her chest, and at that moment she could have sworn she physically felt her heart break apart. So rare was the sighting of such a devoted, loving father; it seemed to her so cruel that God should gift their children with one before taking him away ahead of time.

Hamilton held up a shaking hand for her to take, which she hugged to her chest.

"Remember, my Eliza… you are a Christian."

God will provide, he had written in one of his last two letters addressed to his wife, which Nathaniel Pendleton would surely hand over with sensible timing rather than shove it in her hands while her husband still lived.

Alexander believed, he had to believe, that everything he had endured, the good and the bad, was a part of God's plan. He had to believe there was a purpose to all the tragedy he had witnessed, to wars and hurricanes and sons dying in their parents' embrace at the age of nineteen. And he needed his wife and children to believe it as well; he needed them to hold their heads up high as they carried on without him, as they built up legacies of their own rather than waste their lives in mourning.

We may never know if God truly made an effort to have Alexander Hamilton outlive death for over two hundred years now, but we know Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton sure did.

As he rested his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes, Hamilton vowed to himself that he would remain waiting by the gates of Heaven to see his family again. He was, nonetheless, in no hurry to do so, seeing as he already had his mother, his brother, Philip and Washington to keep him company. And besides, for his family, his greatest gift, he would wait a thousand decades.


End file.
